One Last Time
by Vane Alasse
Summary: Tolkien said Aragorn never walked on Cerin Amroth again as living man. But after death could there be one last time? A conclusion to the tale of Aragorn and Arwen. R&R!


One Last Time  
  
by Vané Alasse  
  
A hush lay over the land. Sluggishly the wind tossed the aged tree boughs. It silently subsided to the grasses, whispering there. In the grey before dawn icy clouds lingered amid the silver trees, resting in pale submission at their roots.  
  
Beneath the trees a shadow stirred. Dimly at first, encircled by soft mist, the shadow advanced. From whence it had come there was no telling; the noiseless footfalls left no imprint in the tender grass.  
  
This shadow had a form, like a man it was. On his face were blended the grace of youth, the valour of manhood, and the wisdom and majesty of age. In his eyes, grey as waves tossing upon the sea, glowed a light which death could never quench. For death had already been endured, and triumph now reigned in the incandescence of the life which followed.  
  
With each step his garment rustled, rippling as water falling from a distant height. Little breezes flew to greet this visitor, and fell in reverence at his feet.  
  
Before him rose a hill. Broad were its banks and covered with swaying grasses. On the ground lay the wilted remnants of once lovely, blossoming flowers. Their fragile petals had fallen in mutual sorrow with the passing of one called Evenstar. Now they were but thin wisps of their past glory, fading as she in who's eyes the reflection of their brilliance had once shown.  
  
The man paused at the summit, looking south and circling slowly east to west. In each direction the expression of his face changed. It seemed his vision was such that he could perceive not only what lay great distances from him, but also events in days taken by the weary years of time.   
  
The man turned slowly, and his gaze fell. He closed his eyes, remembering.  
  
Two figures he saw there, walking through the niphredil. A yellow blossom glowed in the hand of one; stars shone in the other's eyes.  
  
A pledge echoed in his mind. He heard the voices together, renouncing the accursed Shadow.   
  
Her voice alone now, what did she say? The man shuddered as memory woke it. "I will turn from the Twilight."  
  
He heard the answer, "Lady, I am mortal. Death is my portion, the Gift of the One to men. It is not mine to hinder. If you cleave to me, you will not be spared."  
  
For a moment she stood without answering. As still as a white tree, she looked into the West. Slowly she said, "Then let it be mine: the bitter and the sweet, the loss and the silence. For I will not be parted from you."  
  
Memory changed its course, and suddenly the man saw a king lying on his death-bed. Beside him stood the lady, wrapped in grief. Her queenly face was flushed with worry and fear.  
  
"Beloved," said the king. "We have gathered, and we have spent, and now the time of payment draws near. I will speak no comfort to you, for there is no comfort for such pain in this world."  
  
Her eyes flickered like darting flame, and deep sadness swelled beneath.  
  
"Let us not be overthrown in the final test," he continued. "In sorrow we must go, but not in despair. For we are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."  
  
He took her hand and kissed it. Then the eyes of the king grew dim, and all passed from his view. Yet through the growing dark pierced her voice, "Estel, Estel!" Echoing, echoing, echoing. Nothing.  
  
The sun rose at that moment over the eastern hills, spreading glowing rays across the sapphire sky. Soft shafts of light fell in pools beneath the trees. Warmth fell on the man's uncovered head as he stood in the wood, recalling him from reminiscence. A gust of air released a flurry of golden leaves. They fluttered slowly to the forest floor, glittering in the sunlight.  
  
The man opened his eyes suddenly and with purpose. They were glassy with determination and strong with courage. Hope was alive again.  
  
Directing his gaze at the waving grass, he spoke.  
  
Deep was his voice, full of might and power, and resounding with the peaceful chords of familiarity and friendship. The woods froze in silence, harkening to him.  
  
But he spoke not to them.  
  
"Undómiel," he called. "Awake."  
  
The grass on the hill top trembled.  
  
"Undómiel."  
  
A figure appeared, a woman, lying on the grass. Lovely and ageless she was, with soft folds of hair as starless midnight falling around her shoulders. Her clothing was all of black, as for mourning. Indeed, every feature lay in the tense anxiety of grief. Her eyes were closed.  
  
Over the hill rose a flurry of fresh breezes. They breathed softly by her face and entwined through her hair. With little sighs they came to rest near her, for she was known to them.  
  
The man looked long upon her face, fairer than all others. A tear slowly traced a path down his cheek. For a moment doubt and regret crossed his brow. No movement did she make. The deepest slumber claimed her frame; life itself had departed.  
  
Again he called to her, and the hush deepened over the trees. The mist swayed between the branches and rose in golden billows around the hill. Blushing light shimmered amid the clouds.  
  
Her eyes opened.  
  
"Evenstar," he breathed.  
  
He approached her, and, kneeling, offered his hand. When she did not take it he gently clasped her hands in his and helped her to rise. She looked at him in wonder. Her eyes were cold, and in their depths a tender sorrow wept.  
  
She stood still upon the hill, tall and slender as a single beam of moonlight quivering on a calmed lake. Disconsolation captured her countenance. Her cold hands slightly shook in his secure, sympathetic grasp. Long, perhaps, they stood thus, two statues on a forgotten hill, but time is seldom measured in such a land.  
  
At last she spoke, with a voice as soft as summer twilight.  
  
"For love I forsook the life of my people. In darkness and in doubt I succumbed to the doom I brought upon myself. All passed away. All was lost."  
  
She paused as the wind moaned sorrowfully. "How then come you here, Estel?"  
  
"By death we have been parted, yet in death your sacrifice will not be forgotten."  
  
She looked into his eyes with surprise. Then, understanding, she was given blessed relief. All her pain passed away like a fitful dream, and she breathed again. In her eyes a light was kindled, shining as of old with the resemblance of the jewels in the evening sky. Sunlight played on her face, and the aura of life returned. The sound of her gentle laughter rang amid the stillness of the wood.  
  
"This is death?" asked she.  
  
"Yes, vanimelda," he answered with a smile.  
  
"Why did I fear it so?"  
  
"Then it was a bitterness and an ending. Now it is the way of bliss eternal."  
  
"Happy am I now, Elfstone, of the choice I made. My heart rejoices, and I am glad. I will cleave to you, Dúnadan, forever."  
  
"Aute i lóme," he said, lightly brushing the hair from her face. "Night is past."  
  
"Aurë entula," she answered. "Day has come again."  
  
So Aragorn son of Arathorn, king among men, and Arwen of the Eldar, who chose the way of Lúthien, stood upon Cerin Amroth with feet unshod in the fading elanor one last time. Even as he took her into his arms and kissed her, their forms quivered and became like liquid gold and wavered into nothing.  
  
The woods looked for the last time upon their beloved, watching as they faded from the world. Sunlight splashed on the lonely rise, warming the undying grasses. The wind rustled beneath the boughs, and the mellyrn of Lothlórien in Ennorath were silent in memory. 


End file.
